the following is a theological reflection on the work of ministry. this is a shortened version of a longer paper i wrote, which you can access here
My aunt Lucy—a vivacious nun who is the embodiment of Catholic social teaching—was the only one present with my mom when I was born. She claims that she sensed in that moment that God had placed a distinct call on my life. Growing up, she often reminded me of this. I typically responded with a smile of gratitude and humility, although I was never quite as convinced as her. When I was accepted into seminaries, my dad proudly posted about it on Facebook. “We could see it coming in the birthing room!” she commented.
During seminary, I have often reflected on my aunt’s confidence that I had “a distinct call” before I was even born. Perhaps fittingly, out of these reflections I have begun imagining God as our divine midwife. Indeed, midwifery has become for me a primary image of ministerial leadership. The church is in need of midwives who can offer steadfast companionship in the midst of the turbulence and uncertainty of our present moment, faithful and creative imagination to envision beyond it, and the capacity to empower communities in their becoming and bringing forth new life. The art of midwifery is neither solitary nor kept at arms length; it is a messy, involved, co-creative kind of art. It is less a work of mastery and more a work of partnership. “Lord, prepare me to be a sanctuary,” is the prayer of the pastor as midwife, as she struggles alongside others through moments of ecstatic joy and heartsick pain. Through such leadership, the church offers a creation “groaning in labor pains” (Rom. 8:22) a uniquely holistic context in which to journey in beloved community toward restoration and new birth.
Going forward, these midwives must be capable of preaching good news in a religiously plural, rapidly globalizing, and often-volatile world. They must help people (re)discover the joy of the gospel that inspires costly and transformative discipleship. Imagining ministry as midwifery emphasizes that our work is not about doing for others what they must do for themselves, but about providing a space of safety and empowerment built on trust so that, by God’s grace, out of fear, pain and brokenness may come hope, healing and new life.
This passionately incarnational vision of faith and ministry, which has taught me how needful I am of the eyes, minds and voices of others, has been deepened by the sacraments of Holy Communion and Baptism. Through these sacraments, we gain eyes to see the mystery of God in the holy ordinary. In them, we also find a vision and mission for the church. The Table of Holy Communion opens unto a superabundance of meaning that—like liberated Hebrew slaves receiving manna from heaven or Jesus feeding 5,000 with five loaves—is both paradoxical and profound. I believe all are welcome to this Table—not just the confirmed, members, or those who can articulate a theology of it, but anyone who is curious, inspired, and/or challenged by the life and death of Jesus and wants to know more about his invitation to new life.
This simple meal taken with the memory of Jesus and friends in that upper room is a profound opening to the depths of gospel—gospel audacious enough to imagine, like the Prophet Ezekiel, a valley of dusty dead bones being filled with God’s ruach, growing sinews, and becoming enfleshed, again. Indeed, at that last meal with Jesus was one he knew would betray him for a small sum of money and another he knew would deny him. The rest would flee, abandoning him to the violent forces of power. Still, Jesus ate with them—as he often had, with everyone from the religious and political elite to the religiously and socially marginalized. When I affirm that all are welcome to the Table, I take this biblical account as my background; and like the bread and cup, we too are invited to be transfigured and transformed. This Table—which invites us to bring all of our brokenness, imperfections, and joys as we eat and drink—is an image of God’s extravagant welcome and radical hospitality. It is a reminder that the Kingdom of God is marked by superfluous abundance; there is more than enough for all. The invitation for the church is to enjoin itself to this vision of grace, equity, connection and healing that lavishes all.
Like the Communion Table, Baptism also asserts God’s indiscriminate and unconditional love. In the moment of its affirmation—“this child is God’s beloved”—one is made as Christian as she’ll ever be. This affirmation also invites the church into a covenant whereby it seeks to embody God’s prodigious love as the hands, feet, and bosom of Christ. In Baptism, one dies to herself and is raised anew in Christ. This act marks a decision—hers or her guardian’s—to enter a community striving to embody the Beloved Community and make manifest the Kingdom of God. That is, a community of discipleship with all its joy and costliness, “for those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for [Christ’s] sake will save it” (Lk 9:24). In doing so, we proclaim with Paul, as both aspiration and ours now by faith, that we have been crucified with Christ; it is no longer we who live, but Christ who lives in us (Gal. 2:19-20).
Baptism renewed by discipleship is crucial to the witness of the church. In looking to Jesus, we comfort one another where we are afflicted and “afflict” one another where we are comfortable. This is the Gospel of Jesus Christ: God loves us so much that God accepts us exactly as we are, but God loves us too much to leave us there. In Baptism, this gospel word becomes enfleshed in the church’s commitment to supporting its newest member in her life-long commitment to a discipleship that, following Jesus, breaks through our barriers of division, draws us into deeper relationship, and opens us to repentance, reformation, and continual rebirth.
On my winding journey from the birthing room to ordained ministry, the mysterious incarnational and sacramental love of God has manifested abundantly in my life. God has come to me in myriad individuals who have supported, challenged, and invigorated my faith. I am here because of so many others who have “gotten me over”: from my rural Wisconsin family and home church to Usama and his family, Palestinian Christians with whom I’ve shared meals in their home near Manger Square, Bethlehem and with whom I’ve prayed while leading a group through the militarized streets of Hebron. From Huda, a Sudanese-American Muslim woman who is one of my closest friends, to David, a man I mentored through Harvard’s Prison Education Project. From seminary colleagues to the men with whom I dined while working at a homeless shelter in Cambridge. From young children in Vacation Bible School to a 95-year-old fellow parishioner who I visited as a teenager. In these people and so many more I have caught an unmistakable glimmer of the God who incarnates among us inspiring, confronting, and animating our faith with an invitation to embrace a boundary-breaking love. Emmanuel: God is with us indeed—if we have eyes to see.
The ministry of the church is rooted in the ancient Israelite vision of shalom: a world of justice, generosity, and peace born of the proclamation that there is more than enough for all of God’s children. Biblically, this vision—the healing and repairing of our beautiful yet broken world—requires covenantal relations strong enough to weather the difficult yet joy-filled trans-generational work of seeing it through. It requires a God who midwifes us to new beginnings with each day. Indeed, I am humbled and grateful to know in my soul that the life-giving work of ministry isn’t just what I want; it’s what God has been midwifing me toward since my own birth.